


Past, Present, Future I

by DarkShadeless



Series: Past, Present, Future [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Slavery (mentioned), Time Travel, Zakuul's lower districts, and all that implies, blood sport (mentioned), non graphic for the most part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-09 11:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18637456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: They've taken the throne but it cost them so much. All Yon wants to do is to finally get some rest.The Force has other plans.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Actually, I wrote this a while ago *pokes it* but I think I'm happy with it?
> 
> Additional warnings: As hinted in the summary, Yon is very tired of everything. Can read as depressed. I'm not 100% certain he isn't, at this point in KotET. The whole KotFE-KotET storyline was a lot to deal with.

 

It’s over. Finally.

All Yon wants is to sleep for a century. He can’t, there is too much to do, they have to secure the Spire, they have to round up dissidents, they have to-

There is so much to do.

_He’s a bloody Emperor. How did that happen?_

It doesn’t feel real. Just like finally being free of the oppressive presence he has gotten so used to he barely noticed how it weighed on him until it was _gone_. He’s alone in his head again. He doesn’t need to fight anymore.

Yon feels empty. Blank. He should get up. He should reassure his troops, prioritize their tasks. He should- he should- _Force, this is an uncomfortable chair._

The first thought he can be sure is fully his and it’s _that_. He almost laughs.

He didn’t want this. He _never_ wanted this. But someone had to and who else would?

There is a tremor in his hands. Exhaustion. He can't remember the last time he had a moment for himself.

If at least the annoying buzzing would fade. Can you get a concussion from being thrown around on the astral plane? If you hit your head inside your own mind, did that mean you bruised your brain?

Apparently it was enough to leave him very real side effects.

“Commander?”

He shakes his head sharply, trying in vain to choke back a wave of dizziness. “Yes?”

Senya’s mouth is pinched. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine.” He’ll have to be. He always does.

She doesn’t seem happy with that answer. Perhaps she has learned to look past his mask. Or perhaps he is too tired to keep the cracks from showing. Her eyes flicker to her son. It takes Yon longer than it should to recognize Arcann looks no less concerned.

Surreal. He still isn’t past expecting a lightsaber from that direction. Maybe he’d never be.

“Should it do that?”

“I’m not sure, mother. It didn’t when I ascended but he isn’t of the royal line. Maybe it needs to reintegrate.”

_What?_

He can barely hear himself over the ringing in his ears. The lights on the walkway flicker. Time distorts.

One of the corpses of the Knights they have slain, already half hanging over the edge, loses the fight against gravity in slow motion.

Absently, as if through a layer of water, Yon watches a deactivated saberstaff inch toward the abyss.

_I’m not shaking. The throne is._

The high pitched whine grows almost unbearable. Senya winces.

_Oh._

There's an incomprehensible whisper in the back of Yon’s mind and _it had finally been quiet, for kriff’s sake-_

He can’t move. He can’t muster the will to even _try_.

The consoles of the throne grow brighter and brighter, blindingly so, he should really look away-

And then there is nothing.

 

 

_The flash at the top of the Spire is visible even from orbit._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Yon comes to face down in the gutter. The smell is unmistakeable. He has been knee deep in that kind of misery often enough and not even his mask will filter the stench out properly.

The mask he isn’t wearing.

He forces himself not to tense, to keep his breathing even. Worn ferrocrete is rough against his cheek. Far off, a speeder zooms by. Muffled conversation. The high pitched sounds of an alien in distress. Laughter.

No living being he can feel in his immediate vicinity.

Slowly, he eases his eyes open. No droids either. Well that is something, at least.

_What the kriff happened?_

One thing is sure, he isn’t anywhere near the Eternal Throne. If Yon had to guess he’d place the abandoned alley firmly somewhere in the slums of Oldtown.

The harassment he eavesdropped on escalates into pleading and screams. He ducks behind a garbage bin and holds his breath for more reasons than one.

 

_Your carbonite tomb awaits!_

But as seconds turn to minutes neither skytroopers nor knights seem fussed enough by the goings-on to interfere. Yon quietly corrects his location to somewhere closer to Breaktown.

_How in all the nine Corellian hells did I get here?_

Not only that, how did he end up in the clothes he's wearing? His armor is nowhere in sight. Instead he's stuck in a dark and non-descript synth-mesh get up that is soaked through from his nap on the sidewalk. Force, it's barely even reinforced.

_I need intel and I need it now._

He has the niggling feeling he is missing something but can’t place it. Frustrated he scrubs his face to get rid of the worst of the dirt.

Yon’s heart skips a beat.

When the alien in the next street over takes to quiet whimpering he's still staring at his hands. His _hands_. Flesh and blood, both of them. The leg he lost a decade ago is starting to grow numb where he is wedged awkwardly into the small niche.

_What in the name of all the little gods is going on here?_

 

* * *

 

The upside and downside of tying your public persona to a mask is that no one ever recognizes him without it. It's definitely easier to discard a piece of armor than to change your face.

In this case, though, Yon is almost sure the few people who know him without it wouldn’t realize who he is either.

He swallows and forces himself to keep moving, to outwardly ignore the sight of his own reflection in the smudged transparisteel windows alongside the promenade. A dirty, harried young man glances back at him. He is pale as a ghost and gangly in the awkward way younglings of any species are before they properly grow into adulthood.

No, no one would recognize him. Yon barely recognizes himself.

He hasn’t been this wide-eyed slip of a thing since… since when exactly? Before his trials? After?

Absently he pulls on the hem of the black shirt he's wearing. Practical. Cut for freedom of movement and to prevent being grabbed by, say, a K’lor’slug larva. Simple, cheap, easy to replace. A warrior acolyte’s uniform, just like the one issued to him once upon a time.

_Korriban. I’m bloody sixteen._

His body is, at least.

_If this is real and not a convoluted attempt of my unwanted houseguest to take over my mind._

The oily film on his fingers feels real enough. So does the taste in his mouth, a mix of ozone and ‘you really should have brushed your teeth last night, idiot’.

His mindscape hadn’t felt like this.

_Valkorion is dead. He’s gone. He’s not inside your head anymore. Don’t drive yourself crazy. Think._

They won. He took the Throne and kicked their ex-Emperor’s senile arse into the afterlife.

Then the stupid chair had done… something. Something powerful that felt as if he was shaking apart at the seams.

Yon clenches his jaw in frustration.

_Not much to go on. I’ve got to make contact with the Alliance somehow._

There is, of course, the trouble of convincing anyone he's actually _him_. He should probably start out with a different story, something that would get him to Odessen, and go from there. A refugee or volunteer will be more welcome than an imposter.

 

# … be advised that loitering is forbidden during the festivities… #

 

He skirts the holo display, lost in thought. _Or maybe I should send Theron a message mentioning something only we would know. Lana might skin me to find out who told me but it would be quicker-_

# … on behalf of his majesty, our Immortal Emperor Valkorion. #

 

The name echoes through Yon’s mind, leaving no room for anything else. Someone almost runs him over, cursing him out.

 

# … introduction of Princess Vaylin, the youngest member of the royal family, to society. The princess … #

 

_Is dead. I killed her._

The news report cuts to a recording of a gala at the palace. He takes in the high ceilings with a sense of déjà vu. Then the Emperor comes into view on the balcony _where Vaylin had held her speech_ -

 

_The Alliance does not abandon its allies._

The holo projector dies in a shower of sparks. Yon comes back to himself with a flinch, heart racing. Around him the pedestrians are already starting to gravitate towards the crushed display.

He makes himself unclench his fists and move on before anyone in the crowd connects the dots and calls the skytroopers down on him for destruction of public property. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

_I’m in the past._

It is impossible. It can’t be. But-

_Stick to the facts. What do I know?_

Fact is, all sources claim Valkorion is alive. The beloved if distracted Immortal Emperor of Zakuul, ruling their Empire from his gilded throne, is the beating heart of its culture. News postings gush about his rare appearances at every corner.

His children are… children. Vaylin is practically a baby.

_Exactly how many years did I have on her, give or take a stint in carbonite?_

Yon suspects them to number around sixteen. He has never had reason to think about it before but he has a hunch.

The people of Zakuul barely even know the Republic or the Empire exist.

There is no rebellion. There is no need for it.

 

Zakuul is as insular as it is advanced. Its citizens don’t have access to information from the core worlds. If Yon accepts the impossible as truth... No way to say what year it actually is, in his understanding of time, but he has the uneasy feeling that half a galaxy away Baras is thinking about taking a new apprentice.

_Deep breaths. Do not blow anything up. You’ll get thrown out on your ass._

Yon slumps against the grimy counter of what passes for a café in Oldtown, doing his best to look bored and not like a homeless runaway. By the looks the barkeep keeps throwing him he is only moderately successful.

Poking at the screen in the table top, he reaches out gently to gauge the man’s mood.

_Trepidation. Concern._

_Kriff. Please don’t try to help me, my life is hard enough._

All other problems aside, he is an alien. There is no record of his existence on Zakuul. Yon has seen enough societies react to illegal immigrants to put being caught as one down near the bottom of the list of things he wants to give a try.

He closes the search window on his terminal and drops a few cred chips on the counter with the brightest smile he can manage. The barkeeper’s worry spikes.

_Time to get out of here._

Grabbing his meagre possessions, he high-tails it out the door. The afternoon crowd is thick enough to disappear into without a trace.

_I’ll need a new holonet connection for next time._

Troublesome. The people of Zakuul are sheltered in the most inconvenient ways. He has managed to find (read: steal) some credits and even a jacket the former owner won’t miss easily enough. Roughing it isn’t an issue. Looking like he’s roughing it, on the other hand, is a problem in a place this clean. Even in Oldtown his clothes are just a little too worn and his scars a little too deep. Too real.

Yon could always migrate towards the lower levels but that has its drawbacks.

_I’d rather not have to kill anyone stupid enough to try and knife me._

Getting arrested for murder just isn’t in the cards. He takes the next turn, wandering aimlessly toward the entertainment district.

_What I really need is a plan._

A plan and a _goal_. The second is proving to be more difficult than it should have been. He could try to get back to where he belongs but since he has no idea how he got here in the first place, where would he even begin?

The Throne was involved. The end.

Seeing as Valkorion, Arcann _and_ Vaylin would have run circles around them if the thing had granted them power over time and space Yon doesn’t think what it did to him is one of its intended features.

 _If_ the event is reproducible and _if_ a person well learned in Zakuulan technology, which he isn’t, could reverse the effect, they would need access to the Throne. The Throne currently occupied by Valkorion’s arse.

Yon has to tame a wave of raw fury.

That kriffing bastard. Right now he is double-dealing the Empire, letting it drift about half-leaderless at best, sabotaging it at worst, for his own twisted pleasure. Because he can’t give a shit about the billions of people he is throwing aside. Uncountable numbers of loyal soldiers and Sith are dying in the service of that unworthy spawn of a Bantha.

_How much of our downfall was his fault? What did he orchestrate? What happened because he just didn’t care?_

Oricon. Yavin. _Ziost_.

The wave of grey enveloping the planet, devouring everything in its wake. Nothing left but dust.

An intersection down a power converter throws sparks. Yon ducks around the corner, shaking with rage and grappling to keep a lid on it. His powers haven’t been this volatile since he was _actually_ sixteen. He never even realized how much easier control came with age. Puberty is hell. He can’t afford to slip.

Anger won’t help him. No amount of Force given strength will revive -

His thoughts come to a screeching halt as the enormity of the situation finally sinks in.

No amount of power will bring back the people Vitiate killed.

But it doesn’t have to. They aren’t dead _yet_.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … I feel compelled to remind people that Yon is a Sith. He’s a Sith. 
> 
> Slightly spoilery trigger warnings in the bottom notes for those who want them.

 

 

Once the shock has worn off it turns out a goal is easy to come by after all.

_I have to kill him._

Returning to his own place in time is out of the question. There, it is too late. Yon has already failed in his duty.

Sure, they have prevailed but that final victory had come at the tail end of far too many losses. Here, _now_ , he can still prevent them. All he has to do is murder the man responsible.

Now, a Jedi might have cautioned him against judging someone for future deeds.

 _As if his current ones aren’t enough._ Yon does not give a flying fuck. Conscience is hardly the thing holding him back. _If it was that easy he’d already be a goner, he has enemies aplenty. None of them have managed to keep him down yet. How do I go about this?_

He has no allies, no resources to speak of and while his strength in the Force seems unchanged he is stuck in a body that leaves him glad his voice broke early. Not exactly the height of his power.

Yon has no doubt he _could_ best Valkorion, under the right circumstances, but if he wants to get close enough to even try he’ll have to play his cards right.

_That’s the rub, isn’t it._

Valkorion is the god-emperor of Zakuul. He has an army of skytroopers at his beck and call, as well as the Knights of the Order. The only people allowed close to him are his family, high dignitaries and his own honor guard. Possibly the occasional servant.

If past experience serves they are blind to the man’s true nature and insanely loyal to the last.

_Like I was._

Irony at its best. If he had left Vitiate to rot in that tomb on Voss, Ziost would have never happened.

_‘When I ascend, all will be tranquil’. He told me what he’d do. I was such a fool._

Yon huffs and slips into the crowd around one of the Grand Arena displays, listening with half an ear. The announcer isn’t the same but their methods to rile the audience are achingly familiar. Boasting and god-awful nicknames.

 

_The Mysterious Stranger! Yeah, I don’t have high hopes either._

Despite the situation his lips curl into a small smile. Torian had a field day wiping the floor with the competition. They were one hell of a team.

_Before Vaylin broke his neck to taunt me._

The memory alone makes his skin crawl.

_Kriff. Stop wallowing, you’re Sith. If you take her out, she won’t ever lay a hand on him. She’s a toddler, how hard can it be?_

The thought makes Yon slightly queasy. He has never killed a child, not with his own hands, and he is in no hurry to change that. Makeb was bad enough. There is no honor in tormenting the innocent and the helpless.

But she won’t always be helpless, will she? Or innocent.

_Who knows, with Valkorion out of the picture maybe she won’t be a complete nightmare._

At any rate, she isn’t his target. Perhaps it is cowardice that that is a relief. If he had turned up in a time where his former Master was a child, would that have made him hesitate?

_A moot point. I didn’t and I won’t._

He can brood over the metaphysical later. There is work to be done.

First order of business, Yon needs to become a legal entity. There is nothing like the threat of being arrested for _existing_ to put a crimp in any regicide.

Easier said than done. He is no master forger and doesn’t have the funds to buy the services of one.

_But there are ways to acquire those, aren’t there?_

 

* * *

 

 

 

_A few months later_

 

 

The bar is more run down than Commander Lanos usual. It isn’t a secret what he does in his spare time but this is the first time his superiors have taken active note. Usually they politely look the other way.

 

_You know the scene. No one will look twice if you investigate the matter._

Chief Rakon isn’t wrong. No one has given him a second glance, unless they wanted an autograph. Not that many fans down here, either. This close to Breaktown everything is rougher, harder. Even the Arena battles are more vicious than he is used to seeing.

There is a difference between throwing gadgets and showmanship at each other and straight up tearing someone’s head off, like the Wookie on the holo displays is doing.

Barbaric.

The audience is eating it up.

He sips at his drink, mustering the cheering faces, wondering idly if his mark would come in tonight.

The whole thing is a bit of a mystery. Lanos hadn’t thought much of it at first. A bit of doctored footage leaked into the barracks, nothing more.

Now he isn’t so sure.

As far as he has been able to piece together the kid turned up in the underground rotation some time ago, no previous appearances in less violent circles. He is careful about it but there is no hiding the odds people throw on him. He hasn’t lost a fight yet.

The contacts Lanos pumped for information were surprisingly reticent.

 

_Look, man, you’re good business but that’s all I can give you. Why do you care about some newcomer hobbyist anyway?_

 

Newcomer hobbyist, indeed. Soon as Lanos caught a live performance he was sure his fool’s errand was anything but.

The boy is Force-sensitive. No one can move like that if they aren’t. His chief is going to shit bricks.

_Not if I don’t get some evidence together that’s better than a Grand Arena Best-of compilation._

The chances of that are rising. A week ago he finally hit pay-dirt. He found the manager.

No fighter can do without. You aren’t allowed to bet if you go into the ring. No matter the arena, someone has to handle the money for you.

If he hadn’t spent so much time watching the booky out of the corner of his eye Lanos would have missed his cue. He almost does.

Out of arena garb the boy looks like nothing so much as a homeless teenager that has scraped together the credits to pay off some debts. The fake smile of the business woman tells a different story though. Kid isn’t the one bleeding money.

_Well, I’ll be damned._

The stature fits. Camera angles had made him look a bit taller, wider in the shoulders. That he was shredding people with his bare hands helped reinforce that image.

_Is he even legal?_

Stupid question. No wonder he went for the underground rotation. Nobody gives a fuck about age restrictions down here.

Lanos is chucking back the remainder of his drink when the kid looks up. Their eyes meet.

_Shit. He made me._

The boy grabs his take and dives into the crowd. Lanos’ reputation is the only thing that saves him from getting shanked for how he has to elbow his way past the spectators to keep up.

He reaches the door just as his target disappears down a street corner. His chances of catching the kid have just plummeted into the Endless Swamps but that has never stopped him before. He gives chase.

The alley is barely broad enough to run in. Squeezing past piles of rubble Lanos does his best to ignore the splash of his own footsteps.

_Great. Chief owes me a new pair of boots._

Three turns down, panting like a dying exoboar, Lanos is starting to regret his decision. If the neighbourhood was bad before, now it’s downright vile. He isn’t even sure he is still on the right trail.

_If I don’t catch sight of him in the next five minutes –_

The winding side streets open up unexpectedly. Someone runs into him, knocking him off balance. Lanos catches himself just in time not to get brained by a passing speeder.

“Watch where you’re going, you moron!”

The kid’s gone.

 _Crap_. _Back to square one._

That should have been it, but something makes him hesitate. To the end of his days Lanos will swear that Aivela herself touched him in that moment. Or, he will reflect later, much later, perhaps her sister had her hand in it instead.

A little further up the street passers-by duck their heads and scurry away from a tight-knit group. Heralds of Zildrog, by the look of it.

“Are you deaf or just stupid? She told you to shove off!”

The incensed shout breaks the spell.

_You’re joking._

The Herald’s close ranks. This is going to get ugly if he doesn’t get his ass in gear. Lanos quickens his steps, flicking his coat aside to get at his back-up rifle. Chances are the boy can hold his own but he’d rather not put that to the test.

_Brave little bastard._

The cultist have him crowded against a railing, no ten steps next to the elevator to the lower levels.

Must have been headed there. He was close, too. If he had gone down the shaft he would have been in the wind. Instead he stopped to pick a fight with one of the most notorious gangs of Breaktown.

Lanos’ glances at the girl he’s covering. She’s pressed against his back, barely tall enough to reach the kid’s chest and her impromptu protector isn’t exactly a giant.  He draws her further behind him, eyes blazing with yellow light.

_Yeah, he’s Force sensitive alright._

“Hands where I can see them.”

The leader of the group turns, sneer already in place, only to freeze at the sight of Lanos' scowl. Or maybe it’s having the muzzle of a high-power rifle in his face that gives him pause. ~~~~

“That’s about right. Now I tell you what, why don’t you apologize to the little lady, hm? I’m sure we’ve all got places to be.”

One wrong move and he’ll blow their heads off. Scum like that, he won’t lose a wink of sleep. Years in the Arena tell Lanos exactly when they see that in him, how the tension changes when they realize they aren’t the biggest predators on the block anymore.

He doesn’t make the mistake of looking away from the stand-off, at the victim of their harassment. Somehow he doesn’t think they were before, either. They should be grateful they aren’t taking their chances with someone who won’t stop for due process.

Slowly, blustering to cover how they have their tails between their legs, they retreat. As soon as the gangers are out of grabbing range the girl takes off like a shot in the opposite direction. She’s so shaken she bumps into him on the way and doesn’t even waste the time for an apology.

Lanos lowers his weapon, letting it rest against his leg. That was a close one.

_It’s not over yet._

The boy hasn’t moved an inch, still tense. He is mustering him with the same intensity as he did the Heralds. The officer returns the scrutiny with no little wariness.

Cornered street-rats can get vicious.

“Alright, kid. I think you and I should have a little chat.” Purposely relaxing his hold on his rifle, Lanos goes in for the kill. “You hungry?”

The boy’s eyes narrow.

_Pure Sabbacc._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for this chapter:  
> ‘Shit, one of my future mortal enemies is a baby.’ (in that vein: very brief consideration of infanticide)  
> Mentions of Dark Side ending of the imperial arc on Makeb (aka turning what is left of the planet into a lava ball to keep imperial secrets secret. Civilian casulties are more than implied.)


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

That’s how Commander Lanos finds himself at a corner in Breaktown, trying not to make a face at his skewer of mystery meat, while the scrawny teenager who has given him a run for his money for months is gobbling down his third helping.

_Merciful Scyva, he’s fast._

Maybe that’s the trick. Eat it while it is too hot to taste. Lanos shudders and ignores the side-eye the vendor gives him.

“So.” His new friend slows down to throw him a distrustful look.

_Like luring in a wild Mawvorr, I swear._

He flags down the vendor to start another portion. The wariness doesn’t fade but going by the way the boy shifts toward the frying food he has some motivation not to bolt.

“Got a name?”

“That’s _not_ why you were after me. I’m not that pretty.”

Lanos can’t help but grin at the scrappy retort, even if the implication makes his stomach twist about as much as the mystery meat does.

“No, it wasn’t.” He tries not to feel like an asshole for how the teenager is glancing at the rest of his potential meal. Arena fights are good money but habits die hard. Lanos hasn’t met a child that has grown up like this one that would turn down food when it could be earned so easily.

He waits.

It doesn’t take long for the boy’s slim shoulders to slump.

“Kit.”

Gods, Lanos can't even tell if that one's fake or not. “No last name?”

The glare that earns him could have scoured the paint off a ship’s hull. He’s about to push when the boy hunches up under his scrutiny and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Nervous gesture if Lanos has ever seen one.

He catches a glimpse of a scar-covered smudge, barely hidden by the high collar of the youngster’s ratty jacket.

_Fuck. Izax take it._

Zakuul is a glittering world of prosperity but it does have its shadows. Lanos is slowly realizing he's staring right at one of them. If the slavers the civilians upstairs like to pretend don't exist got to this one there's no use fishing for more than a first name, even if it sounds made up as shit. “Fine, Kit. Do you know what the Force is?”

Kit bounces his leg in a way that makes the rusty stool he has claimed for himself creak in protest. “It’s what the Knights’ve got, innit?”

“You’ve got it too.” Lanos musters the bent line of the teenager’s shoulders. “But that’s not news to you, is it?”

A shrug, not half as uncaring as it pretends to be.

The vendor is trying very hard not to look like he is eavesdropping. Lanos sighs internally and adds an unreasonable tip to the bill, casually brushing a speck of dust off his blaster.

That’s all it takes for the man to go pale and find something to do at the other end of the stand.

_Good._

“The Force, it’s special. It’s supposed to be used for a good cause, for justice. That’s _why_ you have it. To do good.” Lanos lets that sink in for a moment, thinking back to the end of his chase. How the boy had turned down his chance to get away to save a stranger. “I think you know that, too, don’t you?”

Kit looks incredibly small, tense as he is. Lanos’ heart, the one he always pretends is made of steel, breaks a little.

“Look, I won’t turn you in.” The teenager jerks in surprise, staring up at him with wide eyes. He makes himself sound stern regardless.

He isn’t going to sugar-coat it. Unlawful use of the Force is grounds for an arrest. The last thing any homeless kid needs is to be run down by the skytroopers, or _worse_ someone who will want to use that talent for their own purposes. “The next person they send won’t be that easy-going. They’re going to bust you. But if you do it yourself, if you go to the recruitment center, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

Kit swallows, scoffs, but there is more than fear on his face. “They’ll never take me.” He’s fidgeting with his half-finished meal and that more than anything tells Lanos he’s thinking. Finally, so quietly the officer almost misses it, “Will they?”

Slowly, letting the boy know it’s coming, he puts a hand on his bony shoulder. “It’ll be hard. The hardest thing you’ll ever do but if you give it your all, I’m sure they will. Just think about it.”

  

* * *

 

True to his word the soldier leaves after paying for a few more skewers. Yon nibbles on them thoughtfully, counting down the minutes until a small ball of enthusiasm and sunshine bounces into the seat beside him and steals half of his food.

“Thank you for the meal!”

Her mischievous grin makes him laugh. “Thank _you_ , Zuri.”

“Eh, it was nothing.” Baiting the Heralds isn’t ‘nothing’ but he’ll let her have that. Sometimes pride is all you have.

“You got it?”

“Sure do!”

She shoves a knotted rag at him in exchange for his plate. He opens the package just far enough to get a glimpse of Lanos’ ID chips. “Thanks again.”

“ ’s your l’st paym’t, r’ght?” Somehow, in the span of two _seconds_ , Zuri has shoved enough meat into her mouth to make her cheeks bulge.

Yon rolls his eyes and doesn’t squash her face against the counter to remind her of her manners. “Yes, soon as I’ve given it to Wrokin I’ll be home free. I’ll tell him you said hello, shall I?”

“Mm!”

_Time for stage two. Let’s find out if that profiteer is as good as he thinks he is._

 

 


	6. Epilogue

 

 

The boy in the examination room doesn’t look like much. Small for his age, worn clothes, a gorak’s nest of dark hair. The only remarkable thing about him is how obviously the gods have blessed him with the Force.

_A street child from the undercity. It’s almost an insult._

But that is Anja’s pride talking. All citizens of Zakuul are the same before the law. All of them the same, in the eyes of their gods.

There is no reason this boy shouldn’t receive the gift, if his spirit is suited. Judging from the incident report the officer to investigate him had found him worthy. Perhaps the Order will too.

Knight Anja doesn’t look away from the fidgeting teenager when the med droid joins her in the observation room. She has yet to ascertain whether he can feel her gaze or not. Curious. “Report.”

“Malnutrition.” _Unsurprising._ “Several recent contusions and lacerations, mostly healed. Observation suggests he is employing the Force to speed the process.” Anja raises an eyebrow at that. _Will you look at that._ “Major scaring in multiple locations. Removal should require an estimated 2.4 hours.”

“Were Commander Lanos' suspicions confirmed?”

“Yes, Knight Anja. I was able to reconstruct the tattoo from the remaining elements. The details have been added to his file.”

She waits until the droid has ambled off to resituate its patient before she opens the file in question. The image of a number unfolds on her data screen, the print bold and thick. It must have stood out like a bruise against his skin before he erased most of it by whatever unsavoury means left him a scar almost twice as big as her palm.

Efficient as their data-miners are there is already a reference attached.

 

# **0372911**. Merchandise ID-Marker. Fashion, location and composition of ink indicate the subject was captured and sold by a pirate crew the Eternal Fleet destroyed five years ago. Distortion of the initial image suggests that the subject received it in a timeframe of two years before that, at an estimated age of eight or nine. #

A child and they branded him like cattle.

_Well, at least justice caught up with those filthy criminals._

There is something karmic about one of their victims having found his way into the ranks of those that hunt people like them.

Anja flags him for transfer and assessment, grim satisfaction settling into her heart. If he makes it through training he will be the bane of their ilk, of that she has no doubt.

 

 


End file.
